When the Night Comes
by s3rp3nts
Summary: An A/U follow-up to S2:E13, "God's Good Grace."
1. When the Night Comes

**CHAPTER 1:** When the Night Comes

**Summary: **"When the night comes, and you lay your weary head to rest... No more trials, no tests..."

After S2:E13 "God's Good Grace." Angst/Comfort/Romance; rated T.

A. McNally and S. Swarek. Title taken from Dan Auerbach's "When the Night Comes," which is an excellent, gentle song. It make sense that nothing much would happen that first night. The amount of emotional upheaval, physical exertion and abuse, etc., would preclude any especially... happy reunions of our beloved couple. This is what I envision instead.

Disclaimer: I do not own "When the Night Comes" or Rookie Blue.

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The world is muted around her, the uproar of alert and rescue finally done. Now it's simply the whisper of tires through snow, Sam living, quietly breathing beside her, and the thrum of her own overwhelmed heart. The night sky is a gentle, ink-dark dome over them, pricked with flurries and stars, a life-sized snow globe. It is amazing, all of it, a miracle living in silence. Stunned, Andy's mind offers only blind, unspecific thanks to the gods, to fate... To the Universe and its Plan.

Sam's face is mottled with bruises and blood, intermittently visible by street lamp, his posture stiff with unspoken aches and pains. Concerned questions back up in her throat: _Should he be at the hospital? How bad is his hand? Is there anything I should watch for?_ Sneaking glances doesn't suffice; Andy wants to strip him to the skin, look with her own two eyes, trace that lithe body with her own hands - only that will satisfy her of his wholeness. "Sam..."

"I wanna go home." He lets the truck glide to a stop and flicks on the hazards before twisting toward her with a slight grimace. "I want my own bed," he sighs, reaching out with his good hand to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "I want a hot shower, clean shorts, a meal to tide me over til morning..." Sam's hand is warm on her neck, tugging her closer. "And I want to lie down next you and not worry about it," he whispers against her lips.

He's close enough that moistening her lips moistens his; someone shifts then Sam is there, warm and solid against her mouth. It's new all over again, soft. They linger over the details: lip to lip, tongues tentative… Andy nudges in closer, nosing him as he's done her, breaking their connection, and nods. "OK."

Ten minutes later, Andy is kneeling over Sam's boots, unlacing so he can toe his way out of them then standing to kick off her own. His house is dark, a little musty with disuse. The timed lights are off, simulating inhabitants at rest for the evening so Sam makes his way to the second floor by memory. Andy just holds on, walks where he walks, quiet because he is quiet.

Sam lights the first lamp in his bedroom, turning to give Andy a direct view of his face. She doesn't flinch, holds herself brutally in check to catalogue the imprints of knuckles, the slice held together by thin, black stitches on his cheekbone. A contusion identified by encrusted blood at his hairline. And that is just his face. "It hurts like hell to lift my arms," he states, matter-of-factly.

The jacket is simple enough, the silky nylon lining easing the garment's way down Sam's arms. Tossing their jackets blindly into the corner behind her, Andy examines the puzzle of his shirt. "Don't over-think it, McNally," his usual cocky grin dimmed just a little. "Cut it off me."

Locating the scissors with his direction, Andy slices the fitted cotton, making quick work of stripping Sam of the remnants. He leans against her while she tugs away each leg of his jeans, until he stands before her only in his jockey shorts and injuries.

The dominant color is the sickly purple of storm clouds, green around the edges. This time Andy's self-control slips, and tears stand on her lashes. Reaching out, she stops herself just short of touching the worst of them until Sam pulls her gingerly into a hug. "I get the feeling if it hadn't been for you, it'd be a helluva lot worse," he murmurs into her hair.

"It's bad enough," she shoots back, voice muffled in his neck.

"But we're still standin'."

Andy breathes in his scent, eyes closed. "Still standing."


	2. Delicate

**CHAPTER 2: **Delicate

**Summary: **"When nobody's watchin', We might take it home... It's not that we're scared; it's just delicate."

After S2:E13, "God's Good Grace," Andy and Sam at home, together. Angst/Comfort/Romance; rated M for sexual situations.

A. McNally and S. Swarek. Title taken from Damien Rice's "Delicate," a whisper of a song and a perfect to describe the bit of time Sandy McSwarek needs before rejoining the world of the living.

Disclaimer: I do not own "Delicate," by Damien Rice or _Rookie Blue_.

NOTE: It's not a mistake where I say "second and third reasons." If you can't figure out the first reason, you're not old enough to be reading this fic. Use your imagination.

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"_sssssss_..." Sam's pained hiss is barely audible over the sound of water hitting tile, but Andy, attuned to every flinch and muffled gasp, hears it.

Andy jerks her hands away, contrite, before replacing them at the site of Sam's bloody head laceration. "Sorry... sorry - it's just..." She parts the sticky strands more gently, brow furrowed, wary of causing more pain. "There's blood everywhere," she huffs.

"'S'ok. Rinse as much of it away as you can," he mumbles, forehead pressed to her taut belly, right hand curled around her thigh for comfort. Being beaten up gives Sam second and third reasons to be thankful for the shower's bench: The stone is solid beneath him, more than he can say for his legs, and it puts his head just under the enticing curve of Andy's breasts.

"Tilt your head back," she demands, and it's natural that he kisses her, there, on the light fullness now within reach of his lips. Andy freezes momentarily, then continues her careful rinsing. "What happened to 'I can't lift my arms'?" she scoffs.

Sam's trails his fingers up the inside of her thigh, inciting the hip wiggle he loves. "I said it 'hurt like hell,' not that I couldn't do it."

Andy's hands follow the curve of his skull, down his neck, to his shoulders. Her smirk is audible. "And 'hot shower, hot meal, clean sheets'?"

"You mean, 'lie down next to you'?" Both hands work well enough to trace the crease where each cheek of her gorgeous ass meets her thighs. Sam drags his lightly bearded chin across her belly, working all his rightfully limited charms on Andy's body. "Come lie down with me, Andy."

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They lay face to face, legs entangled, eye to eye. Sam's cock lies hot against Andy's inner thigh; it's all she can do to keep from edging closer. She tries to satisfy herself instead with caressing him: silken eyebrow giving way to the ridge of his cheekbone, then the rough terrain of his jaw interrupted by the crease of his dimple. But his mouth… His mouth is too much to resist and Andy closes in, eyes half-mast. Sam lets her set the pace, drawing her in with his stillness. He lets her seduce herself, never pushing, while the kisses grow longer, wetter, licks of kisses that set both of them shivering and closing the last crucial distance between them.

Sam levers his wrist under her knee, drawing it up over his hip, opening her to his invasion. It's slow, and weighted with the knowledge of what might have been. They rock into each other, barely moving, careful, the cadence set between them with no conscious thought, until he is as deep within her as possible. "Welcome home," Andy mouths, and he catches the words in another endless series of kisses.

Despite the dreamy pace, a familiar throb begins in the pit of Andy's stomach. "Sam…" she whispers. "Sam…"

"Open your eyes, Andy," he grinds out. "I need to see you."

Andy's lashes flutter, and she stares back into velvet-dark eyes desperate for connection. Correction: Desperate for connection with _her_. "…with you." _I'm with you_. It's what she'd hoped for the long day and night of his disappearance, to be back here, with him, feeling this, "…_oh_…" with him. This is right.

It's that depth of feeling that sends her over the edge, and Sam follows the pulsing of her body with his own and they still, spent.

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"I need to see you." The gleam in her eyes, flecked with gold, just visible in the dim light cast by his floor lamp. The fall of her hair across his pillow. The press of her breasts against him. The flush of her skin as they get closer… closer…

He aches, but it's worth it for this, for Andy. All of it was worth it to get back to her, to feel this alive and whole.

Sam can feel the orgasm beginning in the base of his spine; at the same time Andy's eyes widen and she's with him, she says, then "…_ohhh_…"

It sweeps over him like a wave, everything silenced by the roar in his ears and the fire in his blood.


	3. Ain't No Rest for the Wicked

**CHAPTER 3**: Ain't No Rest for the Wicked

**Summary: **"Oh, there ain't no rest for the wicked, money don't grow on trees..." Boyd has got to get his sh*t together if he's going stay ahead of the wave of attention turning his way.

Getting a little father into A/U, now. Picking up where S2:E13 "God's Good Grace" left off. Drama. Rated K+ for language. A Boyd-centric chapter, with a little Traci, Jerry, Dov and Chris, Pete Sun, and the slightest, merest implication of Callaghan and Peck. Title from Ain't No Rest for the Wicked, by Cage the Elephant. Raucous, fun song about law-breakers.

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No one paid him any mind – there had been too much elation over getting Swarek back, good-natured sniping about who owed whom how many drinks… Not enough attention to loose ends.

Before this fuckin' job – 'til Brennan, Swarek and _that rookie_ – his attention to detail had been laser-like, focused. Each and every case tied up in a tight little bow, asses covered, prettified files laid on the desk of whatever ambitious young prosecutor who needed a win to get to the next rung on the ladder. No loose ends. This wasn't supposed to be any different; in fact, dragging Jamie Brennan back to the shithouse was nothing _but _tying up loose ends. Somehow, though, here he is in the bullpen of the 15th, watching his case, his relationship with the best JMC informant Guns 'n Gangs has ever had and possibly his entire career unravel before his fucking eyes.

_Ah-mazing_. Nash is chasing down _God's Good Grace_. More like _Karmic Fucking Retribution_. McNally's got the car accident story straight from Brennan; it's not a huge leap to the ginned-up report. From the report to a shiny new detective in the 34th and grubby Kaminsky down in the garage. And that guy had _fink _written all over him. He was fucked: Too many loose ends.

Boyd's chin drops into his chest; he's the picture of exhaustion. _No rest for the wicked_; his grandpa used to say that. Shaking his head does little to clear it, so his next thought is _coffee_, then _damage control_. There's gotta be some way to flip this, some way to get out from under, some… Some _leverage_. He's just got to find it. Before this job moves from bad to worse.

Loose ends'd bring you down every time.

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"I don't think they're comin', Nash," Dov offers, shuffling up to the table Traci's chosen to keep watch the Penny's scarred wooden door. He manages to guide the pitcher in his hand to the tabletop without spilling a drop, but it's a near thing.

Sliding into a seat on Traci's other side, Chris nods, typically eager in his support. "Yeah, I mean, they're probably having their own _private celebration_," he adds, elbowing her lightly, a sly half smile curling his mouth.

"Yeah-heh-heh-heh-yuh!" Epstein adds, exuberantly clinking glasses with Chris, sending Traci scrambling back from the now beer-dampened surface of their table.

Pete Sun's glance darts around the table. "Who's probably having their own private celebration?"

Traci sighs inwardly, wondering how many more times she can just _not _answer this nosy kid's question before he gives up asking anything. She can't even get help with triage: In this near-drunken condition, the Wonder Twins are oblivious to nonverbal cues. Here goes nothing. "Thank you, _boys_," hoping Chris and Dov can hear the censure in her voice.

No such luck. "I'm just sayin': Two years of smoldering glances…" Dov replies, burying a grin in another sip of beer.

"Weeks of secret meetings in Swarek's looooove shack," Chris adds, practically giggling.

"Yeah, and two days of search and rescue for Sam's tortured body. I'm sure they're ripping each others' clothes off as we speak," Traci scoffs, staring one then the other male rookie down. _Actually_, she thinks… But no need to confirm for these two nitwits. Pete Sun shifts in his seat, drawing her eye. _Three nitwits_, she mentally corrects herself.

"Well, when you put it like that…" Dov mumbles, tossing the last of his pint down his throat before reaching for the pitcher.

Beer pouring is the only sound at their table, the day's events overwhelming easy conversation. Another five minutes ticks by, and Traci has to admit that Chris and Dov must be right: It's been over an hour since they'd left the Barn and no word from Swarek or Andy. None from Jerry, either, which means he's neck-deep in writing up his notes on the Brennan interrogation. _Speak of the Devil_, she thinks, her smart phone's readout lighting up with Jerry's name. Rising from the table, giving the boys the universal signal for "just a minute," Traci takes the call.

"Hey, Jer, I was just wondering to myself when you'd be wrapping up."

"Not any time soon, babe. Listen, where did you put Swarek's undercover file when you were done with it?"

"What do you mean? It's not in your desk?"

"Yeah, that's what I mean: I'm at my desk and it's not here."

"Well, I put it back in your desk, right there in the D's office."

"And you locked the drawer up like I showed you?"

"Yeah, Jerry, it's a key, not rocket science."

"Which drawer?"

"Jerry."

"Ok, well, it's not there now."

"I'll be right over."

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There is no sneaking away from her three musketeers, so it's more like fifteen minutes before the pitcher is drained and the tab closed out and closer to half an hour to get back to the Barn. The bright fluorescent lighting leaves Dov and Chris blinking stupidly, bumbling their way through the bullpen in her wake. Only Pete keeps up with Traci's long stride, and he is stopped short at the door of the detectives' shared office, the twinned glares of Jerry and Luke Callaghan assuring him he's not welcome.

Traci slaps the door open with her palm, and slows only upon reaching Jerry's desk. She lets her eyes relax and rove its surface, trying to match the corner aligned stacks in front of her now with what she left two hours ago. It's definitely different… but _how_? "Did you move anything on top of the desk?" she asks, not sure what she hopes his answer will be.

Jerry folds his arms across his chest. "Move anything? On top of my own desk?" he asks, tone incredulous.

"It's not an accusation, Jerry," Traci states, looking up from the desk to her boyfriend's stony expression. "I'm getting a weird feeling – like, it _looks _off – and I need to know whether it's you or my imagination."

Uncurling one arm, he gestures at the space centered before his chair. "I threw down my notebook – you know, my interrogation journal – and sat down. Mighta ruffled some other papers. I reached into my pocket to get my key and open the drawer. I looked in, and the folder's not there. I called you." He tilts his head toward his fellow detective. "Callaghan can confirm."

Turning her gaze toward the other man, she raises her eyebrows. "Yeah, that's what happened."

"You been in here all night?"

Luke holds her stare. "No. I went out to give a friend a ride home. Twenty minutes, tops."

_A friend_. Traci doesn't pursue it, but there's only one person who needs both a ride and a place to stay. Besides, they have more important things to worry about than a possible Homicide Luke and Legacy Peck hook up.

"And the desk was locked?" she asks, turning away from Luke's challenging blue eyes.

Jerry sighs, "Yeah, yeah, it was locked. I slipped the key in, jiggled it in the lock…"

"Jiggled it in the lock?"

"Is that a problem for you, Nash? I jiggled it in the lock!"

"Well, _Detective Barber_, has it been that hard to open this whole time or just recently?"

"Just say what you're trying to say, Nash."

"Is it possible that someone picked your desk, Jerry? Someone who's got a helluva lot to lose the more we dig at this case? Somebody like…"

Callaghan beats her to the punch. "Donovan Boyd." Traci meets the deep blue eyes again, nodding slightly.


	4. Woke Up this Morning

**CHAPTER 4**: Woke up This Morning, The Whole World Turned Upside Down

**Summary: **"Born under a bad sign, blue moon in your eye..." A decent night's sleep and a big meal puts Swarek in the mind to get some answers.

Well into A/U territory, trying to build up a story for our off-season pleasure. A. McNally and S. Swarek discuss next moves. Angst/Comfort/Drama. Rated K.

Disclaimer: I don't own "Woke up This Morning" by A3 or _Rookie Blue_.

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_The floor catches him up short, winding him. His throat, already dry, sore, reacts to the dust kicked up by his fall, spasming – but he can't cough. His jaw is pinched open, agony in the joint forcing it wide. And then the water. What to do? His mind is a bright white space of pure animal terror. Brennan's relentless, flat-toned description of what's happening – he's choking. Breathe, choke, drown… Fight._

The tension in Sam's body is what awakens her. Curled away from her in the fetal position, hands fisted, he is twitching and jerking, as if taking invisible blows. But the part that scares Andy is the gasping, the rigidity of his chest. His breathing is strangely erratic, too labored to be sustained. Andy does the instinctive thing: molds herself to his back, hoping the feel of her body will ease him out of the nightmare. Because that's clearly what this is.

Their difference in height puts Andy's face between Sam's shoulder blades, and she presses light kisses to his skin. One hand drifts from his knee to his hip and back again, over the lightly furred expanse of his stomach and chest. She wills peace with each pass of her hand over his body, peace and wakefulness. I'm with you. His breathing evens out; Andy can tell the moment he slips from nightmare to bare sleep, from sleep to fully awake. "You were dreaming," she whispers.

He nods, silent. Every part of his body registers a different complaint, although muted where Andy is stroking him. Slowly he unlocks his knees and hips, stretching to his full length. Her wayward hand is captured, kissed, then her fingers unfurled to cup his jaw. "They said to expect it," Sam answers, voice low and scratchy.

Andy grazes his back lightly with teeth and lips. "They say anything else?"

"Frank give you the 'seventy-two hour' speech?" Sam pauses, squinting in the afternoon light at the bedside clock, "Sixty-eight hours, twenty-seven minutes and twelve seconds now."

It's Andy's turn to nod. "Three days to 'settle my affairs' before the suspension hearing." She fell silent, considering. "How long do you think the suspension will be?"

"Shorter for you than for me, but…" Sam rolls in her arms, "I don't wanna talk about that just yet."

Andy drops her lashes, then glances up coyly through them. "What do you want to talk about, Sam?" As usual when they are naked together, Sam is hard; if nothing else, she'll never have to guess whether he wants her or not. She trails a finger around the flat disk of his nipple; it hardens immediately at the attention.

"Getting awfully sure of ourselves, aren't we?" he rasps, grinning down at her, stopping her exploration of his chest while bumping her teasingly with his hips. "But…" his smile turns rueful, "I'm going to have to overrule that suggestion, too, McNally." An unholy rumble thunders out from his well-muscled midsection. "I gotta eat."

He almost changes his mind as Andy dissolves into helpless laughter against him, head thrown back, bare column her neck enticing him. She's beautiful, sweet… _And mine_, his inner Cro-Magnon insists. And leaving him in the dust, a long leg thrown over his hip on her way out of bed. "Come on, you're so hungry," she sasses down at him. Shaking away the lingering chill of the nightmare, he rolls, follows.

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Andy shakes her head with amazement, watching as Sam chases the last of his fifth runny-yolked egg with a crust scammed from Andy's plate. The bacon had long been consumed; she felt lucky to have gotten the two slices she'd had, the way Sam attacked the platter. Seemingly half a loaf of whole wheat bread, hash browns, fruit, juice, three cups of black coffee… And all of it disappeared effortlessly. Sensing her regard, Sam raises his head, eyebrows high. Swallowing, he holds her gaze shamelessly. "I have a high metabolism," he offers, shrugging.

"Oh, I'm _admiring _your handiwork," she says, glancing pointedly at the stack of dishes on his side of table.

"And I'm healing," he adds, dustting his mouth off with his well-used napkin.

A slow, small smile curls her lips, drawing his glance to her mouth momentarily. "I'm not worried about today's pig-out, Sam," she states, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the table.

"Good," he says, moving forward himself while smoothing his snug tee down his front. "Wouldn't want you to get the idea that all this is going anywhere."

"Well, now I'm _sure _you're feeling better," she shoots back, rolling her eyes.

Dropping the napkin in the emptied plate, Sam extends his undamaged hand across the table to her, eyes intense, battered features falling serious. "I _am _feeling better," he says, closing his fingers around her proffered hand. "And I'm glad you're here."

Andy's eyes flick to her watch. "For another sixty-six hours and change."

"Which doesn't give us much time to plan."

Her frown is immediate. "Plan what?"

"Our investigation into Boyd."


End file.
